


Synapse

by beaubete



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: F/F, cosmic brain orgasms, lesbians! in! spaaaaaaaace!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 09:08:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10828158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: What Mantis can do for her is like nothing else any other lover has ever tried.





	Synapse

**Author's Note:**

> So I got out of Guardians of the Galaxy II last night and even though there were parts I didn't love, Mantis and Nebula were not those parts. Nebula is so prickly and sensitive and Mantis so accepting and eager; they really fit together in a way that was intriguing. Also, brain orgasms.

Delicate fingertips waft over her skin, and Nebula bites back a hiss; Mantis chokes on a sob but it’s gone before it’s more than that: a little hiccough of pain before cool, strangely smooth skin touches hers. It’s not quite–chitinous would be the wrong word for it, but neither is it fleshy the way Nebula understands the word; neither is it rough or armored or metallic the way her own is in places. It feels organic, yes, but completely unique in texture to anything Nebula’s felt before. Mantis’s antennae bob and flex. She catches Nebula’s eye with her own huge and luminous black beetle’s eyes, and Nebula nods.

Somewhere else on the ship, Quill is trying to seduce her sister with strange, old music. She imagines the hulking one is learning social cues from the eerie tree child and the raccoon is rifling through her bags for something worth stealing. And she–and she.

Nebula doesn’t buck. She has more self-control than that, though she won’t admit to the groan that escapes. She’s never–or at least, never had enough to try–at first it’s just the absence of pain, and even that is nearly overwhelming. She can extend her arm without the muscles in her back screaming in agony. Her nerves don’t spit and hiss when she rolls her neck casually. There are pistons in her spine, bolts fused to the bone in a way that tears at her tendons with each shift of her weight, and it doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts, and tears would be welling up in her eye if she could still cry.

There are instruments, beautiful things played with a graceful gesture that sets them singing, and it is with this skill Mantis plays her, fingertips glancing against Nebula’s forehead, her arm, her sternum. “Go.” She can feel Mantis’s whisper in her blood. “Go, and do not hurt any more.”

With no pain, Nebula can feel the clinging heat of her suit. She can feel the kiss of cool air in the room, can feel–Mantis’s eyes are playful as she trips a fingertip along Nebula’s upper arm again, whirling sweet-dizzy swirls along the limb until she’s close, brushing against her breast in a way that could be innocent, but Mantis’s smile says it isn’t.

“We are lucky, you and I,” Mantis tells her blithely, “to be so ugly. I have heard that is how you can tell someone’s affection for you is true.”

And it’s on the tip of her tongue to snipe back, because Mantis is gorgeous and it’s Nebula who’s ugly, but Mantis looks so content as her fingertips dip intrepidly across her chest to skim Nebula’s nipple. Mantis means this, honestly, and something flutters in Nebula’s rib cage. Mantis strokes again, firmer, and pleasure drips in Nebula’s veins like honey.

Mantis is gorgeous. Her eyes are half-lidded with pleasure, her long hair a dark curtain drawn behind her ears as she focuses. She is slender and waspish in figure, and of all the people on this ship, she has chosen Nebula today. A shiver wracks Nebula’s frame and Mantis pauses.

“Cold?” Even as she says it, some forgotten corner of Nebula’s mind is recalling warmth, a distant and tropical heat. Nebula’s smile is wry; she can no more tell Mantis to get out of her mind than she can create this lovely sensation on her own, and besides, it’s meant well.

“No,” she says instead, and then, “It’s good.”

Mantis’s antennae wriggle in puppyish enthusiasm, but her hands are steady, slow. As they creep, so does the sensation, a slow, thick burn that flushes in Nebula’s blood, leaves her hot and achy and squirming. Those dark eyes are knowing, and for the first time Nebula recalls that Mantis can feel her, too; the heat that steals over her at that makes Mantis’s lips part around a breath.

It’s a focused, centralized sensation, except that it’s a radiating, indistinct feeling at the same time. There are–these are parts Nebula’s been sure haven’t worked properly, places where she’s been sure she was issued defective hardware. Now they spring to life with a whimper that rattles in Nebula’s chest. She arches. The pleasure moves with her.

“Ah!” The little sound escapes entirely unbidden, and Mantis’s smile is curling smug around the corners of her mouth. It’s fully pleasure now, clamoring in her blood like a living thing. Nebula groans as Mantis’s ghost hand drifts over her hip, traces up her inner thigh, grips firmer and less yielding than she might have expected around the hinge of a knee. Mantis holds her open, fully-dressed and panting, hips jerking in the air as the sensation builds–builds–building–

Catharsis, in its purest and most violent meaning–Nebula whines, shakes; Mantis’s eyes drop closed and her face goes beatific, shivering her way through a sympathetic orgasm as Nebula shakes apart beneath her hands. It takes long seconds for Nebula to come back to herself; when she does, she gets to watch Mantis sink back into her own skin. She licks her lips, and, still joined at the mind, Mantis follows. She can feel Mantis packing wads of pleasure beneath her skin like cotton batting to insulate against the cold pain already inching its way through the fog of pleasure, of lust.

When Mantis’s eyes open, they are sad, and Nebula imagines she can see inside of Mantis now, all the way to the core that wants nothing more than to see Nebula cheered and pain-free. Nebula smiles. 

Mantis’s hand is still cool but no longer alien when she brings it to her mouth, whispering thanks into the creases of her palm. Pain will return as it does, as it always will. For now, oasis, and for now, that’s all she needs.


End file.
